


Songbirds

by Evandar



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Courtship, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minstrel Lindir, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pyrophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 11:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12652284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: Lindir knows the story well. He has had the poor taste to sing of the Fall of Gondolin as if one of its principal parts was not a living, breathing creature under the same roof as himself.





	Songbirds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> This started as an exercise in Glorfindel from an outsider perspective. The outsider in question, Lindir, then proceeded to fall in love.

It’s by chance that he glances up during his song. When he performs, his mind goes elsewhere: to the strings of his harp and the feel of them beneath his fingers, to the words and their shape and meaning. He is aware of the people around him and the warmth from the fireplace to his left, but his awareness is limited. Limited save for a split second – a chance glimpse as his fingers shift to change chord. 

Lord Glorfindel is standing in the doorway. 

For the remainder of his performance, Lindir is almost hyperaware of Lord Glorfindel’s presence. He does not enter the room; he leans against the doorframe as he listens, perfectly still. Lindir can feel his gaze as surely as he can the hearth-fire, and he glances up again. Lord Glorfindel is staring at him, full of a wonder that makes Lindir’s heart clench in his chest. His mouth opens on a new stanza and he has to close his eyes against the distraction.

…

The first time is not the last. Years pass and Lindir sings and plays and feels Lord Glorfindel watching him from the doorway. Not once does he sit with the others to enjoy the performance; he holds himself apart and stands, entranced, for hours. It comes to the point where Lindir begins to expect him there. He begins to look to the doorway as he takes his place by the fire and glances that way continuously as he tunes his harp. By doing so, he has come to learn that Lord Glorfindel always arrives after he has started playing - almost as if he’s trying not to attract attention.

…

_Here elf and elf-maiden  
Now welcome the weary!  
With tra-la-la-lally  
Come back to the Valley,  
Tra-la-la-lally  
Fa-la-la-lally  
Ha ha!_

Lindir peers up into the trees only to see a pair of brilliant blue eyes looking down at him. Lord Glorfindel is in a cheery mood: he is lounging like a great cat on a sturdy branch, laughing and singing – mocking and teasing their latest guests. There are fine creases at the corners of his eyes, and a flush in his cheeks caused by wine and merriment. A bottle hangs loosely from his fingertips as he sprawls along his branch, and there are twigs and leaves caught in the glimmering strands of his hair. He is wild and beautiful and completely undignified, and Lindir finds himself grinning back.

“My Lord Elrond wishes to see you,” he says.

“And his wish is my command,” Lord Glorfindel replies. He extends the hand with the wine and waggles it in Lindir’s face until he takes it. Then, he rolls off his branch to land safely on his feet. He does not stagger, nor wobble; indeed, he lands neatly and with only the barest whisper of noise. He takes back his wine with a brilliant smile and saunters away down the path, humming lightly under his breath and leaving Lindir standing blinking in his wake. He hesitates, but only for a split second before he follows after.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but I have never heard you sing before,” he says once he catches up.

Lord Glorfindel looks down at him. He is a head taller than Lindir and broader across the shoulders. Through the fine cloth of his tunic – slightly grubby from his escapades in the trees – Lindir can see the muscles in his back and upper arms. His belly quivers.

“Ecthelion and I used to make sport of it,” Lord Glorfindel says after a while. “Who could come up with the silliest of songs as we stood guard together.” He wrinkles his nose slightly. “He always used to win. We would teach them to Eärendil when he would visit, and ah! Lady Idril despaired of us.”

Lindir laughs because it’s funny – yet at the same time feels a gulf of disconnect between the sentiment and the words themselves. To him, a young Elf and a Silvan one at that, Idril and Eärendil and Ecthelion – even Glorfindel himself – are names from legends and tales of distant times. He knows they were real because he has met his Lord Elrond and knows the noble lines from which he sprung, yet they are also characters from songs. It’s hard to imagine Eärendil the Mariner as a small boy, giggling over the silly songs of two legendary warriors and then repeating them to the horror of his lady mother.

“Do you enjoy music?” he asks. “I ask as I have seen you at times, while I perform, and would know if there is a song you would request of me.”

A glance up at Lord Glorfindel shows a definite flush in his ears that was not there before. Even so, his voice is light and even when he replies.

“I would have you sing your favourite,” he says.

It is Lindir’s turn to blush as Lord Glorfindel knows not what he asks, but he bows his head and murmurs an agreement before turning from their joint path so that he may head to his chambers and dress for dinner. Lord Glorfindel bids him a merry farewell, continuing on apparently oblivious to Lindir’s pause and the cry dying in his throat.

Lindir watches him go. He watches the light play over his golden hair, and fails utterly to tell him that he still has twigs in it.

…

He knows that his people are considered primitive. The Silvan Elves of the deep forests are thought to be “less wise and more dangerous”, though whoever first said such a thing has clearly never seen the flashing blades of an angry Ňoldo. Lindir knows that he is as welcome in Imladris as he has ever been, and that if any of the other residents look down on him, they do so behind closed doors so that he may not notice. That does not stop him from feeling a little nervous as he tunes his harp that evening. Lord Glorfindel bade him to sing his favourite song – and that, above all the songs of the High Elves, is a song from his childhood.

The Silvan Elves do not write their history. They pass their tales through songs learned at their parents’ knees, and knot their signs and symbols in the living branches of trees. Lindir has not heard the song he is about to play since he fled the talan of his childhood as spiders invaded their home; his mother had fallen and taken her songs with her, and Lindir had escaped to the mountains. Lost. Alone.

He plucks his first chord with hesitant fingers. The tune rises slowly from his harp, and he closes his eyes against the assault of memory. The green of the forest canopy and the wet, dripping smell of trees and rain; the flower-scent of his mother’s hair and the cedar chips that they burned on their hearth-fire. He can picture her face and the chestnut-gloss of her hair; the sorrow in her eyes as she gazed to the south, to the old fortress from where the darkness crept. He shudders and opens his eyes once more, glancing to the door.

This evening he has an audience of a _perian_ as well as two of the Dwarves that entered the valley as part of the same company. And, lurking by the door, there is Lord Glorfindel – he stands, as ever, in the shadow of the hallway with fire reflected in his gleaming eyes and one hand curled loosely around the doorframe. His presence is a warmth and reassurance, and it shakes Lindir to his core to realise that he _needs_ this. He needs Lord Glorfindel to see and hear and understand – and though they have never before been close, Lindir finds himself craving such intimacy.

He can feel himself flushing as he opens his mouth to sing. He has not spoken in the Silvan dialect since his arrival in Imladris, and yet the words come easily. He sings of starlight and leaf-shadows – of light vanishing from the world as the Great Trees of the West were destroyed, and the return of twilight to the forests of the world. He knows that grander songs exist: the Ňoldolantë written by Maglor himself not least amongst them. But this is a song of the Silvan Elves and they _have_ no grand history. What they have are trees and shadows and sorrows uncounted by any but themselves.

He sings until his song is done, and the final notes fade into the crackling of the fire. And when he looks up, Lord Glorfindel is standing on the threshold, firelight blazing in his golden hair. He looks torn: his body is unaccountably rigid, but his expression soft with something like wonder. It’s an expression that suits his youthful features, and it makes Lindir’s heart pound to see it.

He stands, awkwardly clutching his harp to his chest. There’s a moment where they stare at one another, caught in orbit, before Lord Glorfindel steps back from the doorway and vanishes into the gloom. Lindir feels his body lurch as if to follow him, but he cannot find the courage to move his feet.

…

The Dwarves and their _perian_ leave fourteen days later, well fed and rested and stocked with supplies. Lindir watches them leave from a high window, his harp in his lap. He plays chords and scales and absent-minded parts of songs; hums verses under his breath, translating Quenya to the dialect of his childhood in his head. He feels lost and unanchored, as if his fëa is adrift.

A flash of gold in the courtyard catches his eye. Far below, Lord Glorfindel is walking with Lord Elrond; their heads are bowed together – sun-bright and night-dark. They are both proud and noble and, at times, utterly alien to one such as Lindir. 

Lord Glorfindel, in particular.

His was an intimate request, and had he not fled in the aftermath of Lindir’s performance, he would have claimed the Ňoldo had enjoyed it. Certainly, his face had said as much, though Lindir has begun to doubt himself. He has been absent from his usual doorway for the last two weeks and any and all enquiry has been met with assurance that Lord Glorfindel was performing his duties at the borders. Or, worse, blank incomprehension at the thought that they might know each other.

Ai! He has never fled Erestor’s presence so quickly.

He watches as his Lords pass through the courtyard and disappear beyond his field of vision before turning his gaze once more to the mountains and his thoughts once more to the woods beyond.

…

He is sitting in the gardens, perched on the edge of a silver fountain with his harp cradled in his lap and a song on his lips, when he becomes aware of his audience. Lord Glorfindel is dressed for sparring – his tunic sweat-stained and filthy; his hair bound back into a single braid, though wind-pulled curls have escaped to drift about his face. His blue eyes are wide with light and joy, and there is a sword strapped to his hip. 

Lindir, painfully aware of Lord Glorfindel’s reaction when he last heard him singing, falls silent. He places a hand over the strings of his harp, dulling their sound, and he begins to stand.

“Please!” Lord Glorfindel says. “Do not stop on my account.”

Lindir holds himself awkwardly, unsure of what to do. To retake his seat and return to his playing would be to admit that Lord Glorfindel is what caused him to cease in the first place; to pretend he had not and continue on his way would be to lie and to leave this strange distance between them unresolved. He hesitates. Lord Glorfindel shifts, equally awkward, before taking a step toward him.

“I owe you an apology, I think,” he says. His tone is soft and low, as if Lindir were a startled deer about to spring away. “I fear I have hurt you in some way, and I would have you know it was not my intent.”

“You are kind, my Lord, to trouble yourself on my account,” Lindir says quietly. “But if my songs have offended you, then the fault is mine.”

Lord Glorfindel grimaces. He takes a step forward, and another, and Lindir moves to seat himself on the edge of the fountain once more. He will not run away. He will not. He grips his harp tightly as Lord Glorfindel settles next to him. He smells of grass and sweat and there is a streak of earth on his brow – faint, as if he has already tried to wipe it away. 

Lord Glorfindel doesn’t meet his eyes; he stares into the water instead, dropping a hand to touch the surface.

“’Twas not your song that offended me,” he says quietly; barely loud enough to be heard over the rush of the fountain. “Your voice enchants me. Your song – a strange dialect I do not know, but it brought trees to my mind. The rushing of wind through leaves and a sadness that could not be quenched. It was lovely. As you are.”

Lindir twists slightly to look into the water himself. His reflection is the same as it has ever been: cream-pale skin and chestnut hair; hazel eyes that have not seen the light of Aman and are therefore dim in comparison to the glory by his side. He is plain, for an Elf: what beauty he has lies only in his voice.

“I am nothing so special as that,” he says. He turns away, back to his harp. “Though your other observation is more accurate. I sang of the Trees of Valinor, which none of my people did see – though their light reached our lands and we mourned when they were destroyed.”

Lord Glorfindel makes a noise that seems half-curious, half-wounded. Lindir knows not what to make of it and so remains silent, shifting his fingers against his harp-strings without playing a note.

“Before today, I had not heard you sing outside the hall,” Lord Glorfindel says after the silence between them has become interminable. 

Lindir lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “The Hall of Fire was built to hold performances in the evenings,” he says. He glances up to find Lord Glorfindel watching him. His gaze is bright with sorrow and longing, and Lindir finds he cannot turn away – that awful swooping sensation in his stomach has returned and his mouth turns dry.

“So Elrond intended, yes,” Lord Glorfindel says. “But – ah! ‘Tis a foolish thing. I cannot. I cannot –“ His eyes squeeze shut and it is his turn, it seems, to look away – down to the water as if seeking guidance. “I would hear you sing, day after day, for as long as you wished to fill the air with your music, for your voice is sweeter to my ears than that of Maglor himself,” he says eventually. “But the Hall of Fire is beyond me.”

Lindir stares at him in disbelief. He ignores the comment about Maglor – it is ridiculous and obvious flattery, and Lord Glorfindel should not lower himself to offer such compliments – but instead he thinks back to their evening encounters. He thinks of Lord Glorfindel standing in shadow in the doorway; of his rigid stance when he observed Lindir’s song of the Trees. He thinks of fire reflecting in brilliant eyes and he realises with sudden clarity that he has _never_ seen Lord Glorfindel in the Hall of Fire for as long as they have both been in Imladris.

Realisation comes cold and devastating as wind from the mountains in winter, rattling leaves from the tree-tops and howling through their bones.

Fire.

He knows the story well. He has had the poor taste to sing of the Fall of Gondolin as if one of its principal parts was not a living, breathing creature under the same roof as himself. He cringes, clutching his harp to his body. Lord Glorfindel lifts his gaze from the water and grimaces again.

“No amount of time in Mandos’ Halls could erase that memory,” he says softly. “The smell of burning hair and flesh; the fear and heat as I fell. ’Tis a poor excuse: that fear of the hearth you sat by prevented me from speaking to you that night and every night before it. That my own shame has prevented me doing so since.”

“I had not realised,” Lindir whispers. Horror and sorrow ache between his ribs and he longs to reach out – to offer what comfort he may. 

Lord Glorfindel shrugs. “Few do,” he says. “Elrond knows, and Erestor. To try hiding such from either of them would be folly. But –“ he sighs, soft and long, and turns his gaze to the sky. “But anything larger than a candle-flame and all my vaunted bravery crumbles to dust.”

…

Legends, Lindir thinks to himself, have consequences.

He watches as Lord Elrond prepares to leave Imladris. Sat astride his horse, his Lord is a figure from ancient tales: dark and noble and possessed of strange power. He rides east, to the forest where Lindir once lived, which has been poisoned by shadow; he rides to answer the calls of the Lady Galadriel and Mithrandir. He watches as Lord Elrond twists a ring from his finger and – after a brief moment – passes it down to Lord Glorfindel, who stands by his side.

Vilya, the Ring of Air, is slid onto Lord Glorfindel’s finger where it rests as if it were wrought for him. Lindir’s sharp gaze catches a flash of sapphire – bright as Lord Glorfindel’s eyes – before the ring is once more cloaked from sight.

Imladris is protected – safe in the hands of one who has already died protecting a beloved city. What consequences there will be of this, he does not know. He prays to any Vala who might still listen that there will be none.

…

He takes to playing on balconies and on terraces. As cool winds sweep down from the mountains and winter begins to chill the air, he sings out of doors – his breath steaming and his fingers chilled. Each time he does, he finds himself with company: Glorfindel sits by his side to listen, and between songs they speak of small things. Inconsequential things that, given who he is speaking to, he would never have thought to learn.

Glorfindel is fond of cheese, he finds out. He enjoys it best stuffed into edible flowers and baked, or eaten simply with wine. His favoured colour is blue, and he enjoys spring the most of all the seasons as the frozen wastes of Helcaraxë yet linger in his memory. He is of Vanyarin heritage as well as Ňoldorin, and when he speaks of his father’s people across the sea, his tone becomes sad and wistful. For all his prowess in battle, Lindir discovers that he is terrible with a bow; that for all his wisdom, he is an awful poet – his songs tend towards lewdness and, on the occasions that he sings them, Lindir finds himself laughing almost too hard to play an accompaniment. 

_When you drink ale beware the toast,  
For therein lay the danger most.  
If any here offended be,  
Then blame the author, blame not me._

And each and every time, Glorfindel laughs with him – their voices rising in unison through the gardens of Imladris.

…

He is with Lord Glorfindel when the chill wind brings with it the first snow of winter. They are wrapped in cloaks to fend off the chill as white clouds descent from the mountaintops and sink, heavy, into the valley. Fat flakes begin to fall and drift, and soon Imladris is blanketed over with a thick pile of it.

The fireplace of the room they shelter in is stone cold and bare, but Lindir finds warmth regardless, for Glorfindel shifts closer to him and wraps his arm and cloak about his shoulders. He is as a furnace against Lindir’s side, and he peers up at him shyly to find the Ňoldo Lord looking down at him with some scrutiny.

“Lindir,” Glorfindel murmurs. His tone is weighed with inexplicable fondness: a fondness that seems only to have grown since his wild claims and strange compliments months before. Against the white of the sky, Glorfindel is a splash of radiant colour and vivid beauty. He looks like an image of old, torn from a fresco, yet Lindir can feel his ribs expand with every intake of breath, and the sweet warmth of each exhale against his upturned face. He is real – almost too real – certainly more real than the eerie silence surrounding them. He is infused with sacred light, and the glow that typically surrounds him seems even brighter than ever.

And yet…and yet he is looking down at Lindir as if _he_ is something special. As if _he_ is a treasure that Glorfindel hardly hope to touch. To be the object of such attention is an awe-inspiring thing, and Lindir feels his ears heat in response.

“Lindir,” Glorfindel says again, his voice almost a sigh. His free hand rises to cup Lindir’s jaw – to trace long fingers up the point of his ear. 

Glorfindel is fair and young and fearless, but it is Lindir who closes the distance between them. He stands on his tip-toes to press their lips together, and when he feels Glorfindel’s arm tighten about his shoulders – feels that incredible strength pull him close – he allows himself to melt into the warmth of Glorfindel’s embrace. 

Their kiss is long. Glorfindel seems unwilling to release him, and his fingers have become tangled in Lindir’s hair. He cradles the back of his skull even as they part, and rests his brow against Lindir’s own – his eyes bright and his young face full of joy.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Songs! The first is, of course, 'O! Where Are You Going?' by JRR Tolkien, which features in the third chapter of _The Hobbit_ and is an excellent example of Elvish ridiculousness. The second is 'Watkin's Ale': a 16th century English broadside ballad, which is a very sprightly song about male ejaculate. Full lyrics and sheet music are available at http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/ballads/songbook/watkins_ale.html if you want to check it out.
> 
> 2\. I realise that portraying Glorfindel with pyrophobia is unusual, however, I'm going for it for the purposes of hurt/comfort.


End file.
